


Awoken

by Galaxxii_B4be



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Demon Keith (Voltron), I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 12:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19109653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxxii_B4be/pseuds/Galaxxii_B4be
Summary: When he stared long enough, when he stared hard enough, he'd see the darkest glow of yellow. He'd see the eyes. And they'd stare back. Watching. Wanting. Waiting. Sometimes, Lance would cry.





	Awoken

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hi, second contribution here (if the first stuff even counts). Beforehand, I'd like to apologise if you find this to be absolute shit. I understand that. If you don't hate it? I understand that as well. I'm an understanding person. I really don't know why I wrote this, or what was going through my head as I did, but this is my first time writing anything like this and I just figured, why not share it. It's short, and could be wayyyyyy longer, but it's something!!
> 
> Sorry for any mistakes!
> 
> So, yeah, I hope you enjoy! :V

Lance's pockets were getting lighter and lighter as the days went on. And he was tired, both mentally, and physically. 

The closet door of his apartment wouldn't stay closed. And that seemed normal enough. There were just certain doors in homes that wouldn't shut all the way or stay shut or even open properly. But the biggest difficulty with Lance's door was that there didn't appear to actually be anything wrong with it. No matter how many times he had Hunk come over to try and fix it, there wasn't anything to fix. And sure, Hunk's specialty was cars, but he was the only guy he knew that was good with tools and would fix his door free of charge. That was one of the reasons Lance started to doubt him; the car thing. But Hunk had told him over and over again to trust him, and deep down, Lance did. He said there was no problem with the door. Not one loose or rusted screw. If anything, it was in peak condition.

Yet the fucking door just kept opening. 

It got to the point where, yeah, okay, Lance called in his apartment maintenance simply because he wanted to be through with it. Just as Hunk had said, just as Lance should've listened, there was nothing physically wrong with the door. Meaning, there was no good explanation for why Lance would either be on the verge of sleep or wake up in the middle of his sleep to find it partially open. It wasn't just a crack. It wasn't completely wide. It was always opened just enough for someone to stick their leg through it. 

Lance would find himself staring into that eerie darkness with his stomach in his throat. 

He tried everything he could think of.

He got a lock installed. It would still open. He would sleep with his main light on. That only lasted a few days before Lance was tearing up at the thought of his bill. He even used something to block the door, but lo and behold, it would be moved as if he never put it there. Lance started sleeping in the living room on his couch, but the quality of it only kept him tossing and turning throughout the night. 

Lance wasn't going to go as far enough as to try and spend his nights with friends just because his closet door wouldn't stay closed. That would seem too stupid, too childish, even for Lance. He's never even brought up his real reasoning for the closet to his friends. Part of him doesn't want to believe it himself. 

But when the uneasy feeling of being watched settles over him heavy enough to draw him out of his sleep and he looks straight into the closet to see something, to see someone, he can't deny that it isn't there. Sure, someone would say it's just his dreams leaking out into reality (which Lance desperately wanted to believe seeing as to how he would dream of seeing it too), or his eyes playing tricks on him in the dark, but they were real, and they were there, and Lance was terrified. 

He was terrified and he was exhausted. It didn't help when people started to notice. When someone would point out the dark circles under his eyes, makeup, more makeup. His fidgeting? Too much coffee. He promises to cut back. The instances where he dozes off? Neighbors got a new dog. No, he's not going to complain, there are probably enough of them already.

Lance kept using these excuses to draw attention away from himself. Sometimes he'd sit in his apartment and think about it. What if he was making a big deal out of nothing? What if there really was nothing in his closet, because, let's face it, a monster in his closet at the age of 22? Not happening. Couldn't be. It's just a door. It's just a closet. There's nothing there. Everything was fine.

Everything was far from fine when Lance started waking up with marks. He was about to get in the shower when he first saw them. When he stripped his clothes and glanced in the mirror he noticed the bruises. Small bruises. Like hickeys. They were on his upper thighs, across his stomach, littering his chest and neck. His mind raced with the possibilities of where they came from and what they meant. It all stopped short once he urged his body to step in the shower and wash them away. Wash them away entirely. Get them off of his skin and out of his mind. 

When they weren't gone after the shower he just covered them up with makeup and covered up the whole incident. 

Lance began to worry, genuinely, when he started hearing the voices. He thought maybe he should see someone, talk to someone, but the voices told him otherwise. The worst part about it was that he couldn't even tell what they were saying. But he could get a basic gist of what they meant from the tone of them. The whispering would get the loudest when he was trying to sleep. And Lance wanted to close his eyes and disappear from his new enemies, but he felt more vulnerable that way. So, he'd keep them open, where they'd stay on the darkness of the closet. The black that seemed to stretch beyond the walls of the enclosed space. When he stared long enough, when he stared hard enough, he'd see the darkest glow of yellow. He'd see the eyes. And they'd stare back. Watching. Wanting. Waiting. Sometimes, Lance would cry. 

The bruises and voices reached a fever point in just short of a few weeks. Lance would start to hear them over the sound of his conversations. He couldn't focus on anything anymore. They followed him wherever he went. It was all shit at his job, where he had to stand still and at attention and listen to people's orders. Write them down, correctly. His supervisor had chewed him out. After he fainted his boss suggested he take some days off for his own health. Lance was always thankful towards that man. 

Makeup was no longer a solution either. He was using too much and it was costing too much to cover up his body. The bruises grew in number and size and variety. He hated that he knew what they meant. There were imprints on the skin of his thighs and along the bones of his hips. Finger imprints. Long and large and angry. They stood out against Lance's tan body like a sore thumb. Deep purples, blues, and repulsive yellow. Lance hated the one on his neck the most. It was the most obvious, the one that would never fail to catch his eye for the longest. 

Lance tried to ignore the worst of it. He tried to ignore the actual scratches he'd find that bled, and the throbbing ache in his lower back, in his throat, and in his bones. But, the voices. They told him he wasn't meant to forget them. No. He wasn't allowed to act like they didn't exist. 

And then the notes started coming. The calls. The visits. Noise complaints. Apparently, he was making way too much noise in the late hours of the night. There was a specific one that made him almost slam the door in the guy's face. Not out of anger or annoyance, but because he felt like giving up. Children lived here. The walls were thin. But what the fuck did they want him to do?? He didn't know what to do. He couldn't do anything. Lance had no power in this. 

Once Lance had given in to his troubles and spent hours crying in his bathroom, he felt properly empty. Like there was no more Lance. Just this body that wasn't his anymore. And the voices were a thousand times louder then the rush of the shower water, which had gone cold long ago. In whatever language they were speaking, they were beckoning him like they always did. Amidst the strange vowels and hisses was his name, soft and gentle. They told him to go to bed. Go to bed where it was warm. Go to bed where it was safe. Where he would be comfortable. 

The logic behind this was that Lance knew they were all lies. That bed was cold, and stale, and whatever was awaiting him between the sheets was something sinister. But, he went anyway. Because they called and begged and pleaded. His name, so soft, so gentle. All he had to do was surrender to them and he'd be safe. He wouldn't have to worry about security, no. Everything would be fine once he crawled into bed and fell asleep...

When the burning sensation surfaces, Lance is sure it's his sheets. He throws them off his body, off of his skin, because the contact is searing. Lance is sweating, and he shivers despite it all, and suddenly his clothes were too hot too. Everything was too hot. He felt like he was burning alive. So, he removes all of it. His shirt, his shorts, his boxers. No touching. He couldn't handle it. Yet, he still sweat, and he still burns, and now it was becoming harder to breathe. 

For a moment, Lance believes it's the body he's in. The skin itself was blazing, close to melting into the muscle and bone. Lance began to claw at it, his nails digging deep into the wet skin and tearing. He pays no attention the the blood or the pain, he just wants it off. He needs to get out of it. 

And where were his voices? Why couldn't he hear them anymore? Lance doesn't want to be alone. Not now. He needs them back. He can't be alone in his room in the darkness. Why was it so dark? Where were the walls? Why did the voices leave? Lance can't handle any of it.

It wasn't until the faintest creak from the closet door did Lance stop. He looks up, wrapping his bloodied arms around himself as he makes eye contact with those eyes. The eyes. The ones that glow yellow around dark irises. They cause Lance to shiver, and his heart drops when they start to come closer. Lance can't make out much, but they're large. A tall, daunting figure emerges from the closet and contrasts against the black of the room.

Lance can't help the emotions that wash over him. He's horrified, because this thing, this creature, is actually confronting him head on. Lance knew it would happen at some point. He's confused, as to what's about to happen. About what this all means. Is this it? Is this where all the torment he's had to endure comes to a gruesome end? Will this monster, this demon, consume him entirely now that he's out of the shadows? He's relieved and happy, because this means that he isn't alone. Sure, the voices might be gone and the darkness might be seeping into his open wounds, but there's something else here with him. There's a familiarity in the eyes, in the deeply disturbing presence that is this...thing. 

And it's all that and more that causes Lance to stay in his place.

Lance sits in the center of his bed, petrified, and waiting, for the inevitable face to face encounter that physically lurks closer as it closes the distance in between them. Lance can feel it, like static in the air, pricking the inside of his lungs. The bed dips and Lance can hear himself whimper. It creeps up the mattress, dark matter, compressed into one other worldly being. 

Now, Lance can see it. 

And what a pretty face it has.

Tears make home in Lance's eyes and quickly fall. Lance feels like he's falling with them. The beast before him gives off waves of cool. It's like a breath of fresh air. Skin. It must be skin, or something close to it, that rubs against his own, in places Lance has felt it before. All of it is cold. So cold, that even though Lance isn't in his right mind, he knows that his body is tricking him. That his own skin has reached a degree so scalding that his brain is convinced that he's freezing. The flames that have engulfed him are the brightest of blue. 

Lips are pressed against his and Lance can taste his inevitable doom. He begins to smell the burning and rotting of his flesh all together. His own body decaying as he's still in it. Not that Lance is capable of thought anymore, but one crosses his mind as a crushing weight settles on top of him and his back hits his blood soaked sheets. 

He just wants to wake up.

Lance wants to wake up and this has to be the only way how. How long it'll take to happen? Lance has no idea. There are fingers, large enough to scale Lance's entire hand, curling around his throat. Oh, Lance knows those fingers. He knows this feeling. It's been there before, and before, and before. And the sweet pressure of lips are still there. Lance is sinking into the bed. He must be. He registers no sequence of his own blinking. Closed or open, Lance is lost. Closed or open, Lance just wants to wake up. He can still feel the wet of tears on his face, now stretching down and around to his ears. Moments later, Lance finds himself smiling. Giddy with pain, giddy while seeing the welcoming, open arms of death. If that's what waking up means, so be it. 

Lance laughs against the beast's lips and the beast grins back. 

Before anything else can happen, Lance feels the bones in his neck shatter. They twist, and turn, and stab into him. A soothing warmth, the promise of blood, surges from Lance's esophagus and fills his mouth. It's coats his tongue and paints his teeth and all he can manage is one pitiful cough that sounds more like a gurgle. The eyes above (behind? around? inside?) him are wide with amusement. Lance wants to drown in those eyes. 

"You're still smiling?" 

The deep, guttural voice fills Lance to the brim and he's spilling over. How beautiful that monstrous thing sounds. 

With no words, and no voice, Lance reaches out with whatever he can to say _thank you_. To let them know how _thankful_ he is to be so close to the end. The end of everything.

_Thank you._  
_Thank you._  
_Thank you._  
_Thank you._  
**_Thank you._**

"You are welcome." And it's said with such affection and malice that it causes a violent shudder to crash through Lance's body. 

Body? 

There's nothing left. Lance was wrong, earlier, in the shower, when he thought his body no longer belonged to him? When he thought there was no more of him left to exist? What a fool he had been. Lance goes to move his hand, and there's nothing. The leg he broke when he was 12 isn't there. The arm he dislocated when he was 7 is completely gone. Lance's whole body, Lance's everything, _Lance_ is rightfully no more. He had never truly known what it meant to cry tears of joy until this very moment. Airless, no longer housing the cage he had been trapped in for so long, Lance feels every inch of fire and pain and blood in his soul. One more step. One more step into this, into insanity, and Lance would truly be awake. Being dead was now what it meant to be alive. Fear long behind him, life hanging on the brittle strength of a mere thread, with a smile centering his very being, Lance begs. 

_Please, wake me up._

At that very moment, his very own soul is stripped away. Shredded to pieces. Consumed. 

At that very moment, Lance McClain is truly, blissfully, nothing. 

At that very moment, Lance McClain wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Did it tickle your pickle? Did it tingle your pringle? 
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated if you feel kind enough to pleasure a poor girl like me :)


End file.
